


How To Break An Editor

by OctoberSkies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack Treated Seriously, Editor Au, Editor!Dorian, M/M, Mutual Attraction, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, Tumblr Prompt, Writer!Lavellan, badly written "smut"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8274430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSkies/pseuds/OctoberSkies
Summary: Dorian Pavus, scion of House Pavus, was a scholar, a gentleman, and most recently, an editor. New to the Free Marches, he was busy trying to make a name for himself with the help of his recent colleague, renowned author Varric Tethras. However, the manuscript forwarded to him by Varric, written by one "Varlen Lavellan", certainly left a lot to be desired... 
((The Editor AU story is chapter one, but if you're curious about what exactly Dorian had to endure, I have included an extract from Varlen's 'story' in chapter 2))





	1. It's Hard Work, Having a Soft Spot...

_I swear on the blood of my ancestors,_ Dorian seethed, slapping the stack of papers onto his desk and removing his spectacles. _I will have Tethras flayed alive for sending me this drivel._

Dorian Pavus, scion of House Pavus, was a scholar, a gentleman, and most recently, _an editor._ Trying to make a name for himself in the publishing sphere had been difficult, considering the prejudice held by southerners for people of his homeland. However, when he made a rather high profile connection with popular author Varric Tethras, he’d thought he was in for a career leap. A quick-start. Not necessarily a jettison to stardom – nothing quite so vulgar as that. But at least some kind of recognition beyond the small building he had rented in the outskirts of Ostwick with the last bit of coin to his name.

 _I'll set up in Markham someday_. _Right by the university,_ Dorian thought bitterly, swiping at a blot of ink he had spilled on his desk during his furious dissecting of the manuscript. _But if that is ever going to occur, I need to work with people with talent. Skill. Finesse. Maker's breath, given what I have just endured, basic grammatical skills would do._

Dorian had contacted the author over a week ago, requesting a meeting. A meeting that was scheduled for _today._ He knew how it would appear – how it would lift the man's hopes after what Dorian could only assume were hundreds if not thousands of rejection letters. But in truth, Dorian only wanted two things from their consultation. First, to reject him in person, and second to inform him _never to contact him again_. He had once considered himself a patient man, perhaps even a kind one, but there was only so much he could reasonably endure before he split at the seams like a cheap coat. It just so happened that this manuscript, with all its self-indulgent metaphors and wayward descriptions, had pushed him well beyond his limit.

 _Tethras must think himself quite the jester,_ Dorian thought darkly, barely resisting the urge to set the pages on fire with a flick of his wrist. Not due to their contents, however insulting to the senses it may be, but due to sheer frustration. This was the first thing in his life he had truly decided for himself, after all. His first solo endeavour since he left Tevinter and the future planned for him. And he was given _this_.

A soft knocking resonated from his front door, startling him out of his seething. Dorian sniffed indignantly, choosing to ignore a very singular, troubling fact. The fact that he had so few clients that a knock at his own office door actually _surprised him_. Straightening his shirt, which was tucked beneath a deep red Marcher-style vest, he rose to his feet. Eyes fixed on the door, Dorian cleared his throat.

“You may enter.”

Nothing happened for a moment, and Dorian felt his brows pull into an even tighter frown. _Don't tell me he's so inept that he doesn't even know how to operate a doorknob._ However, just as the thought entered Dorian's mind, the brass handle turned ever so slowly. Timid as a mouse. With a click, the door inched open, sending a ribbon of light streaking across the room as the afternoon sun peeked in through the narrow gap. The light expanded as the door continued to open, and Dorian mentally steeled himself for who might face him. He couldn't even begin to imagine the kind of individual who could have written something so abhorrent. So obviously, _painfully_ self-indulgent. So...

The man stepped into the room, the light pouring in behind him catching the stray strands of his silver hair and brushing them with gold. He was younger than Dorian, but stood tall, possessing the lean build of someone who favoured speed over brute strength. His eyes were a blue so vivid that Dorian swore he had seen them somewhere before, set in the crown of a King. They watched him, wide and keen, bright in their excitement, but attentive in their nervousness. For a second, there was a flash of something else too – almost _recognition_ – but the look was gone so quickly that Dorian questioned if he had seen it at all.

The elven man shifted slightly, his hands toying anxiously at the cuffs of his dress-shirt as though the style made him uncomfortable. A part of Dorian couldn’t help but appreciate the way the span of his shoulders filled out the garment. It was a touch too small for him, puling ever so slightly around the upper arms. Not that Dorian was complaining, of course. Its crisp shade of white served as a remarkable complement to the silver hair that tumbled down past the elven man’s chest, one side tucked back behind his ear, the other left to fall free.

 _Maker's breath,_ Dorian thought, momentarily stunned into silence. _This is... rather unexpected._

Not to mention completely unfair.

“Hello? Are you Ser Pavus - the editor?” Varlen asked, tilting his head slightly as he voiced the question. Dorian still could scarcely believe it. _That_ was Varlen Lavellan? _That_ was the man responsible for...

Memories flooded back. Memories of metaphors and similes so awkward that Dorian had actually _sweated_ from second-hand embarrassment. What fondness he felt for the man snapped like a twig, and Dorian shook himself free from his silver-haired spell. Briskly, he nodded in reply, and then gestured to the chair in front of his desk, his movements businesslike, his eyes narrowed.

“Indeed. Varlen Lavellan, yes? Please, take a seat.”

 _‘Please’?_ Well, that certainly hadn't featured in the angry monologues he had rehearsed in the bathtub. In fact, there hadn't been any 'pleases' involved at all, save for ‘please do Thedas a favour and never write again’. Dorian shook his head, deciding to overlook his slip-up. They had a whole hour together, after all. There remained plenty of time to recover from his momentary lapse into politeness.

  _A whole hour..._

“You have a really nice office, Ser Pavus,” Varlen said, smiling as he lowered himself into the seat, a look of pure wonder on his face as his eyes scanned the room. “It’s actually kind of intimidating, coming here. Varric said you were important, but I guess being told about it and seeing it for myself are two very different things, huh?”

Dorian nodded, distracted. Now that the man was closer, he could see the pale lines that lined his face, as though working in tandem with his fine features, accentuating them. _Dalish, then?_ Now that was interesting. He hadn't heard of many aspiring Dalish authors, after all. As far as Dorian was aware, they were a rather reclusive people, and arguably for good reason. He had heard them referred to as savage and wild, even by city elves. Yet the man sitting before him seemed nothing of the sort. _Full of surprises, aren't you Varlen?_

“Yes, I imagine it would be,” Dorian finally replied, drawing out the silence to his advantage as Varlen shifted in his seat. A little intimidation never hurt for these sorts of things. This was to be his first proper rejection after all, and _oh Maker_ , it was going to be a good one. He would see it now; Varlen fleeing the room in tears of repentance for the pain he had caused. It was practically a crime, forcing Dorian to endure that… that _attempt_ at literature. He gestured to the table and the ink-stained manuscript. “Now, I take it _this_ is your doing?”

Varlen nodded, the smile still fresh on his face, his back straight like an attentive pup. Dorian felt the beginnings of a scowl drawing on his features, but quickly forced the expression aside. _No._ He must build up to the inevitable rejection. Ensure it remained the sole enjoyable part of this whole ordeal. _It would be cathartic._

Just to be sure, Dorian picked up the manuscript and flashed the elven man the title, written far more boldly than it deserved at the top of the page.

“‘ _Bareback in the Frostbacks_?’” Dorian asked slowly, meticulously, and once again, Varlen nodded with fervour. He was the picture of honest enthusiasm. _Maker… was he holding his breath?_ It was almost impressive, how completely oblivious Varlen was to reality. Crushing his spirits the way he had inadvertently crushed Dorian’s own would be almost too simple a task. _Laughable_.

“I see. Tell me, Varlen,” Dorian continued as he lowered himself onto his own seat, the plush cushions doing their best to soothe his frazzled nerves. “What inspired this… _text_?”

He could see the elven man thinking about it; turning the question over in his mind. _And what a strange mind it was._ Then, Varlen gave a small nod, as though satisfied with the response he had formulated, and spoke.

“A friend of mine – a fellow author, actually – told me this sort of thing is ‘all the rage’ in Orlais,” he explained, although a slight blush had begun to creep up his neck as he spoke. He cleared his throat self-consciously. “I sent him a letter asking for advice about a month ago, and he said to ah… ‘make it spicy’. I just tried to take that feedback on-board...”

 _Tethras you absolute git_ , Dorian thought, dismayed as he stared at the red-faced Varlen. _That is hardly sound advice for a budding author! Or any respectable author, actually…_

“I… see,” Dorian said, thrumming his fingertips on the wooden table. “Listen, Varlen—”

“— Did you like it?”

The interruption was so sudden that it stunned Dorian into silence. The elven man was leaning forward now, his face the picture of youthful candour. Dorian caught a familiar dreamy nervousness dancing in Varlen’s eyes. It was fast replaced by a look of regret for interrupting him, the tilt of his brow apologetic as he shrank back in his seat, but Dorian had seen enough. He had held that same hopeful look once, too. It was how he had convinced his irritable landlord to sign him the lease for the very building they were now sitting in. All of a sudden, faced with such a simple question, Dorian discovered himself at a loss for a response. He hesitated, lips parted slightly, his voice failing for a few seconds as his mind struggled to find the words he needed. Well, the _one_ word he needed.

“It ah… _well_ … it was certainly…”

Dorian stumbled his way back into silence, the few words he had managed to articulate bumping into each other like a panicked crowd, all elbows and shoulders. He managed to stop before he made an ever bigger mess of the moment, and cursed inwardly at his own blathering. But the unprofessional nature of the moment appeared lost on Varlen, who just continued to watch him, his gaze unwavering, so eager that it almost _hurt_. A pang of guilt stabbed at Dorian’s chest. He knew he couldn’t possibly publish the man’s work. Not unless he wished to become the laughing stock of the entire editorial community at his own debut. It was an unfortunate yet unavoidable truth. Varlen simply had to be rejected.

_Yet…_

Dorian had lost track of the moment – of how long he had spent silent, doing battle with his own thoughts. When he returned to the room with a shiver of awareness, he met Varlen’s gaze and froze. His blue eyes had… dulled. _Significantly_. Lost their excited spark. Even his posture had wilted, no longer possessing that eager rigidity that came with anticipation. Instead, Varlen wrung his hands beneath the table – Dorian could tell simply by the subtle movements of his arms. It was, after all, a nervous habit he knew all too well. One he had, mercifully, grown out of.

“… You didn’t like it.” It was barely a whisper, and certainly not a question. Varlen looked away, his eyes drifting down to focus on the rumpled, ink-stained manuscript. The guilt amplified. Dorian may have scrunched it up a few times during his more passionate fits of outrage.

_No. I didn’t like it, Varlen. Not even a little bit. It was the single most appalling thing I have ever had the displeasure of reading. I would sooner see it recited to criminals as a method of torture than published alongside my name._

Dorian knew he should just say it. Just say the words, and send the man on his way. Reality was a harsh place, and Varlen was fragile, like a new bloom reaching out for its first rays of sun. It would be all too easy to crush his spirits like an insect underfoot. At least Dorian could ensure it was done as gently as possible. Yes – gentle but _firm_. That was how he had to do it.

“It… has potential, Varlen.”

_… What?_

Dorian froze, stunned by the words that had left his own traitorous lips. However, before he could attempt to backpedal, the elven man perked up, those eyes regaining a measure of their earlier vibrancy.

“R-Really?” he breathed, then swallowed, his lips drawing into an uncertain line. “Are you sure? It’s just… Varric never got back to me when I sent a copy to him, so I was worried that, well…” he trailed off, and a sliver of his earlier solemnity once again found purchase on his handsome features, tugging at his dark brows. The man was like a kicked puppy. It made it near impossible to resist comforting him.

“Well… every text has _potential_ ,” Dorian found himself continuing, feeling as though two very different people were currently inhabiting his body. One who controlled his brain, and one who controlled his mouth. They were, evidently, _at war._ “It just needs some… adjustments.”

_A lot of adjustments._

_A complete do-over._

_A bonfire._

“Will you help me fix it, then? Please?” Varlen asked, his voice hitching slightly, although Dorian couldn’t tell if it was out of excitement or anxiety. Dorian hesitated. _Maker’s breath, did he really want to get involved in such a colossal train-wreck? It could be suicide for his career!_

Varlen continued, clearly made nervous by Dorian’s silence again. He twisted the buttons on his cuffs between his fingertips.

“It’s just… I know it’s not the best. I really _do,_ ” Varlen began. Dorian bit back a snarky response detailing just how much of an _understatement_ that was. “But it’s just… this is the first thing I’ve really tried to do on my own. My clan disapproves, mostly. The Keeper thinks it’s frivolous. My father _hates_ it. They’d rather I focused on being a hunter, like I’m supposed to. But it’s just… not what I want to do with my life. I’m not that kind of person. It would be easier if I was.”

As Varlen spoke, he hung his head. Finally free of that striking blue gaze, Dorian took a second to raise his eyes in a silent plea to the Maker. This was a test. _It had to be._ He was being punished for some transgression made in his misguided youth. It was the only explanation for the author he had longed to destroy being such a disarming individual. After all, Dorian had been so adamant. _So certain_. Now, sitting across from the downcast Varlen, who just wanted to be his own person, Dorian was forced to come to terms with a painful truth.

_He couldn’t go through with it._

“It will… take a fair bit of work,” Dorian began carefully, as though the slower he spoke the more time he would have to change his mind mid-sentence. “There are sections that are rather difficult to… _picture_.”

Varlen eyes flicked back to him and he nodded fervently, unconcerned by the negative feedback, too overcome by relief at being given a chance. It stirred a warmth in Dorian’s chest that bordered on alarming, but was tempered by a sense of fondness. _It seems we find ourselves in rather similar situations, Varlen,_ he mused. _Two men intent on defying the roles forced upon us by our betters. It’s lonely, yes? To be a fool with a fool’s dream._

Of course, Dorian was actually _good_ at what he chose to pursue… but he supposed everyone had to start somewhere. Opportunities for learning and study had never been hard for him to come by in Tevinter, after all. He could not forget that his position had lent him prospects not available to most.

“Then you’ll work with me? Really?” Varlen pressed, leaning forward, lips parted anxiously. This was it. Dorian’s last chance to back out. To free himself of this responsibility - of this seemingly insurmountable task.

“Yes. Yes, I believe I will,” Dorian replied, then started as the elven man launched to his feet with a cry of delight. His relieved laughter poured from him like a long-held breath as he ran his fingers through his long silver hair. For a second Dorian thought Varlen was blinking back tears, but the elven man turned away before he could get a good look. Despite his many misgivings, Dorian found himself smiling, too. Genuinely smiling as he revelled in Varlen’s celebration. It was probably the first true smile he had managed since fleeing south from the Imperium. It felt… freeing.

“Thank you! Thank you so much – you won’t regret this!” Varlen finally said once he had composed himself. He reached out and grasped Dorian’s hand in both of his, shaking it almost a little too enthusiastically. Dorian rose to his feet with the motion, quietly pleased by Varlen’s reaction to the news. _It was rather nice to feel appreciated._

“Now, don’t go thanking me just yet,” Dorian warned the beaming man. “I have rather high standards, you know. It will be quite the upward journey to reach them.”

“That’s okay,” Varlen assured him, puffing out his chest slightly, a look of sheer determination hardening his eyes. “I can meet them. Maybe not right away, but I will, with your help. I know it!”

Dorian stared for a moment. _Maker’s breath, he’s… adorable._

_Utterly adorable._

_What have I gotten myself into?_

Dorian cleared his throat. “Very good,” he said, then glanced at the clock. _Noon_. “Now, shall we discuss some housekeeping matters over lunch? Find you something to sign, perhaps.”

Varlen was already nodding as he moved towards the door, the spring in his step so joyous Dorian feared he might actually start _leaping_. But instead he just opened the wooden door and held it patiently, turning back to flash Dorian a warm, grateful smile. Dorian returned his own as he hurried to grab his coat, and then scooped the manuscript up off his desk. However, with the papers held firmly in hand, another thought struck him. One that he had found rather alarming when he had first read the piece. One he had intended to overlook, given that the piece had no hope of being published.

“I am rather curious, Varlen,” he began, walking across the room and grabbing his keys off a hook on the wall. “You didn’t happen to… _base_ your protagonists off anyone in particular, did you?”

Varlen froze. The smile on his face, however charming, was unable to conceal the look of horror that had filled his eyes.

“I-I, ah… _n-no_. Nope. No one. Just my imagination and um…” he trailed off, red-faced and so flustered he almost sounded out of breath. Dorian arched a sceptical eyebrow at him. Varlen swallowed. “Okay, fine! I _maybe_ drew some inspiration from a portrait in a book Varric sent me. D-Does it really matter?”

 _A portrait in a book…_ Dorian thought. Then something tugged at the back of his mind, as insistent as a child pulling on his sleeve.

“Did that book, by any chance, happen to be the fourth edition of _Liberalus Philologus_?”

“No.” Varlen said, but far too quickly, and Dorian just shook his head, a chuckle already rising to his lips as the pieces began to fall together. _Well, that was one way to get his attention._

_Varric you devious bastard._

“As you say, then. Although we may have to consider altering the names further if we ever intend to publish. Wouldn’t want any unsavoury rumours to circulate, would we? Now, come – we have much to discuss.”

Dorian passed through the door, then sighed quietly to himself, still a little in denial about what he had just agreed to. But Varlen appeared at his side mere moments later, and he forced a smile onto his lips. Dorian was, after all, nothing if not professional.

_This is the bed I have made. Time to lay in it._

“So, what made you decide to come south to Ostwick, Ser Pavus? Varric said you were from the Imperium.”

Surprised, Dorian turned to regard Varlen. He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. _Where to even begin?_ He hesitated, then laughed, running an absent hand through his dark hair.

“Ah. Now _that_ is quite a lengthy story, Varlen.”

Varlen smiled, completely intent on Dorian, those eyes bright with curiosity. “We have time, Ser Pavus. I mean, we can’t _always_ talk about me, right?”

Normally such prying would bother Dorian. Normally it would set him on edge. Yet, despite himself, and despite the fact he had only just met Varlen, he relaxed.

“Perhaps over a pot of tea, then. We’re not far now.”

Varlen beamed, white teeth flashing, and nodded his acceptance. _Maker,_ Dorian marvelled. _It’s like staring into the sun._

The pair of men continued in strangely comfortable silence for a time, the familiar sounds of the city rising to meet them from the tangled mess of side-streets and shops. Yet even the bustle of the afternoon couldn’t seem to dampen Dorian’s mood. It was a startlingly _good one_ , all things considered. This was not how he had pictured this meeting going. However, as they drew nearer to their destination, Dorian made a decision. An important one. He cleared his throat, immediately drawing Varlen’s attention.

“One more thing, Varlen.”

Varlen tilted his head curiously. “Yes?”

“… Call me _Dorian_.”


	2. "Bareback in the Frostbacks"

 

* * *

  **Bareback in the Frostbacks - A Majestic Love Story**

_By Varlen Lavellan_

“Your back is like a mountain lion. All muscle and tooth marks,” Darian purred, running his long, slender digits over Verlan’s bare back. They were camping on the Frostbacks and it was cold, so Verlan’s skin was covered with goose-bumps and shivers. He should probably have a shirt on, but then his eight-pack wouldn’t be visible, and no one would know that he was shredded.

“What tooth marks?” Verlan asked inquisitively, tilting his head curiously. Then D ~~o~~ arian bit him on the shoulder-blade but not enough to draw blood because he was good at biting things. Verlan squeaked in a manly way that was nothing like a nug, and Darian laughed, his moustache trumpeting with enthusiasm.

“You are lucky you taste as good as you look,” he simpered, his hands windmilling on Verlan’s back, neck, and shoulder, where he had bitten, “or I’d have to _eat you_.”

“That makes no sense.” Verlan corrected him patiently, clearly the more intelligent and well-read one of the pair. His bright and vast intellect left Darian speechless. Verlan grinned shiftily. “Speechless, I see.”

“You are truly wise and beautiful, _amatus,_ ” Darian gasped, about to cry because it was all visually overwhelming. Tears ran down his cheeks like the ends of rivers, where they branch out in like fifty directions before they reach the sea. Verlan nodded, his silver hair reminiscent of a spider-web, but without the dead bugs in it. He was a really good hunter too, but not with his hair. He could catch a fly with his bare hands. Someone totally saw him do it once.

“Hush!” Verlan said, flapping his manly hand in Darian’s direction. “Your flattery will get you nowhere! Now, shall we proceed with our sexual encounter?”

Darian nodded his potent neck-muscles, each tendon all tight, like a piece of cotton snagged on a door-frame. He tore off his shirt and revealed his abs, which were reverberating and glorious but not an eight-pack like Verlan’s. Casting his shirt aside with a billowing laugh, Darian brandished his biceps and careened Verlan onto their bedroll. It was hard, but Verlan’s unquenchable back-muscles were harder so he didn’t even feel the impact. It probably hurt the ground more than him. He was like a chiselled stone-god. He’d already had to beg members of The Instigation not to erect hundreds of statues in his honour, but they had been very insistent.

“Your so hard and bad,” Darian mewled, rubbing himself against Verlan’s torso like a rag against a washboard, “let us now partake in the sins of the flesh.”

“Ok.” 

Verlan slithered and flipped Darian like a pancake with his flowing forearm strength. When he kissed him his mouth was a hungry lion, and their tongues battled like two warriors fighting for victory on a really important hill. Verlan could have totally won but he let Darian win because that’s what you do when you love someone. Verlan shivered as though someone was making snow-cones in his soul but he was actually really hot, and not just in temperature. Darian’s meat-muscle punched Verlan’s mouth in a good way and Darian trilled like a lusty parrot. Their teeth wrestled sensually. He tasted like bread.

“Show me your dong!” Verlan roared, and released Darian from his pants with his rampaging fingertips. Darian sashayed Verlan’s pants off too, but he was slower because his fingers weren’t nearly as abundant and supple.

“You could buy me dinner first!” Darian interjected interruptingly. Verlan seductively licked the man's moustache.

“I thought you already ate…” Verlan whispered shyly. “After all, _you_ _bit me_.”

“You are so very right and true.” Darian admitted reverently, as  ~~Varlen’s~~ Verlan’s logic was, of course, infallible and as perfect as his physical form, to which all could only hope to aspire…

* * *

 

Varric let the papers fall limply onto his lap, his eyes glazed over slightly in a mixture of disbelief and horror. The only thing stopping him from casting the manuscript into the fire was an overwhelming urge to finish the story – something he had only just realised was an extreme character flaw that he desperately needed to work on. But while his curiosity was not quite sated, his mind could not take any further assault. Not on that evening. _No_. Varric resolved he would wait. He would try again in the morning. Surely it couldn’t get any worse…

_... or perhaps he should just send it to Pavus and be done with it._


End file.
